


Finally Scared

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Implied Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Realisation of feelings, Some angst, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8452699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Their mission in Portugal had ended badly and the days after ended up being a recuperating period for UNCLE.





	1. Chapter 1

Their mission in Portugal had ended badly and the days after ended up being a recuperating period for UNCLE.

Losing agents were never good, but UNCLE had lost a lot of good agents that day after their confrontation with THRUSH. And after being told to lay low for a couple of weeks, Illya had packed his bags with a brutal sort of precision and tried not to think about Gaby, about how they had almost lost her, the way her makeup was smudged around her face with blood in her hair. And Illya tried not to think about the blame game between Napoleon and him. It was really nobody’s fault but Napoleon was so goddamned stupid sometimes, because what would have happened if Illya had lost him somehow? Because no, that was something Illya could not fathom happening. He wasn’t going to think about it. And he wasn’t going to think about the shouting afterwards, or the cruel words that had come out of their mouths. So he had left for Devon, just like Waverly had instructed, where a safe house was waiting for him.

And after a week or so, Illya thought he was managing well alone even if it had felt weird not having Napoleon and Gaby with him. He cooked meals, read books, played countless chess games against himself, and although he found himself missing his partners, Illya would try his best to do things that would get them off his mind. But when the phone rang suddenly, while he was about to turn in for the night, the only person he could think of (and hoped that was doing the calling), was Napoleon.

“Yes?”

“Are you still mad at me?”

Hearing that voice took all of the anger and frustration he had felt for Napoleon out of him, suddenly. The fatigue of trying too hard started to seep through.

“Cowboy, you could say hello, you know.”

Illya could hear the shrug through the phone, could imagine Napoleon’s smirk. Damn it, had he missed him that much?

“Come to New York.”

“What?”

“Instead of staying in that damn safe house, you’d be much better with me here. I’ll show you around, Peril. It’ll do you good instead of you moping around there all by yourself.”

What Illya knew was unspoken, or maybe what he imagined, wanted Napoleon to mean was _‘I know you’re having an awful time right now, I am too, and I know everything’s gone wrong but you can forget about that here. I’ll bring you to every corner cafe and bookstores, or I could get you a new chess set if it makes you feel better. We could go have drinks in bars filled with drunks and shouts and smoke, we’ll do all of this.’_

Instead of saying yes, Illya shook his head as if Napoleon could see him.

“No, I can’t just leave here.”

“Peril, forget about Portugal. About what had happened. Come to New York.”

“Cowboy, we have orders. Stay out of sight. Not until the investigations are over. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re there,” Illya reasoned.

“Come on, we’re not children. We’ll manage just fine.”

There was a long pause. A loud hesitant sigh. And then Napoleon was talking again.

“If you want to come, then come.”

His words bordered on harsh, but the voice was kind.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“I’ll give you a tour of my hometown. You can do all those tourist things if you want.”

A heartbeat or two later and Illya’s agreeing to Napoleon’s invitation even if he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.

“So, yes?”

“Okay.”

“Great. Then I’ll be waiting. Let me know once you know which flight you will take.”

Napoleon had sounded a little pleased by the end of the phone call and Illya thought to himself, _‘what are you doing?’_ He was supposed to be a responsible agent, and he should really tell Waverly of his plans, because two spies advised to lay low and then going on to break those rules and then be seen together in New York, no less, was _definitely_ a bad idea, but fuck, after much contemplation, he was sure the Englishman would understand his decision.

 

***

 

Illya’s scepticism on whether he had made the right decision started once he stepped off the plane. He had been to New York before, on missions of course, not without a reason, and this time around it was different, in a way. Of course, there were reasons for him to be there, Napoleon being the primary one, but it was not something of urgency, more of a whim or a sense of impulse when he had agreed with his partner. It was different that way. He looked at the throngs of people in that airport, the hustle and bustle, the sounds, atmosphere; everything from the serenity of being alone in that Devon safe house compared to this in front of him. Everything had shifted greatly. 

Once Illya walked into the airport’s main arrival hall, he quickly noticed Napoleon from a distance, sitting on a bench, looking the other way from him and suddenly Illya felt awkward. He merely stood there with his suitcase by his side, eyes glued to his partner. But before he could figure out what to do, Napoleon turned and saw him. Then Illya saw it. That smile of his that always made him feel…there was no word to explain what he felt every time he saw that smile of Napoleon’s. The American raised a hand, corners of his eyes turning up a little, and the tentative hesitancy Illya had felt earlier, passed. Napoleon looked vulnerable somehow without his usual dapper suits, Illya noted offhandedly. He’s wearing a casual dark cotton shirt with a black jacket, hair ruffled somewhat, and Illya realised he rather liked that look on him. Maybe this was the real Napoleon he was seeing, in a place where nothing was expected of him, without any pretences, anything. And looking at him looking like that, something tight and nervous eased its way out of Illya’s body.

“Cowboy.”

“I almost thought you were not coming, Peril.”

“Got delayed while waiting for luggage. But I’d said I’d come. So here I am.”

“Here you are, indeed. Well, let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Illya nodded, followed Napoleon out of the airport and mightily hoped it wasn’t a mistake for him to be there. 

 

***

 

Illya was in one of those moods the first few days, the ones where he’s irritable and felt like everything Napoleon did was pissing him off, so he would do everything just so his partner would feel as miserable as he was. He knew he shouldn’t, but the memory of what had happened in Portugal was still fresh and sharp and cutting in his mind. He simply couldn’t get it out of his head. And it did not help that the New York weather was awful either. It was grey with drizzle that never became proper rain, thus it lingered around and never disappeared. He expected it to be better than British weather. He didn’t want to go out feeling as miserable as the weather so he lazed around in Napoleon’s apartment, read books and magazines or whatever he could find from Napoleon’s bookshelf, played chess (surprisingly Napoleon had a chess set although he had told Illya he hated the game), and when there was some television on he would watch it even if half the time he wasn’t really paying attention to what was being shown. 

“What happened to Gaby wasn’t your fault.”

Forty-eight hours of sullenness ended up being the limit as Napoleon finally decided enough was enough. Because he did not ask Illya to come to New York so he could put up with his childish behaviour. 

“Let’s not talk about this,” Illya grunted. Avoiding eye contact with Napoleon, he stood up from Napoleon’s living room sofa and strode towards the window. Talking about Portugal, which they had avoided ever since he had arrived, was the last thing Illya wanted. It was quite impressive, really, that they had managed to do so. But now, there seemed to be no escape.

“I know she means the world to you, and I regretted what had happened too, Peril. But it’s our job. People get hurt. And sometimes, it’s us. It’s just the way it is.”

Illya looked out the window. It was drizzling outside, just like how the past few days had been. It’s the damn New York weather and Illya hated it. And he hated that Napoleon was always, _always_ taking things lightly. If it hadn’t been Gaby that day, it could have been him. Lying on a stretcher, bloodied and unconscious, pulse growing weaker by the minute. And that’s what Illya hated the most. Seeing his partners in a state where he could do nothing but helplessly watch. And it hit him, recalling Napoleon’s earlier words about what he thought Illya felt for Gaby. 

_She means the world to you._

Napoleon had gotten it all wrong. He was so wrong. Gaby’s important, of course, and what had happened to her had shaken Illya to the core. But it had also opened Illya’s eyes to what he was scared of the most.

“You do not understand, Solo.”

“Damn it, Illya, I _do_ understand. Fuck, do you know all I could think about after Portugal was Gaby? And how I wish it had been me instead? It should have been me.”

“Shut up,” Illya growled. “Just, shut. Up.”

The silence drew itself out for a minute before Illya heard a muffled curse and turned around in time to see the door of the apartment room close. It was perversely satisfying at first, to have hurt Napoleon in a way he didn’t want to, but then Illya realised he’d made a terrible mistake. 

An hour later, the door opened again just as Illya was beginning to get a little nervous and a lot remorseful. He found Napoleon in the kitchen and stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching him cut some vegetables he assumed Napoleon had just bought from the store around the corner where he had taken him there on the first day he’d arrived.

“Cowboy.”

After a few seconds, Napoleon finally acknowledged Illya’s presence, looked at him as if asking, _‘What?’_

“You are cooking.”

Napoleon merely shrugged. “I’m making some stew for dinner.”

He was back to his vegetables once again, and Illya realised then that he would have to be the one to make the first step. To apologise. 

“I’m sorry.”

Napoleon sighed. He dropped the knife in his hand on the counter and turned to face the Russian. If looking guilty was going to do the trick for Illya, then maybe it was working, because Napoleon couldn’t ignore that look. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Forget about it.”

“No, I honestly am. For being a…what do you say, an asshole?”

A heartbeat, a pause, and then Napoleon couldn’t help but smile. He could see Illya taking in a breath, uncurling his tensed hands he had clenched into fists. He looked tired around the very edges. Worn out.

“An asshole, huh?” Napoleon said and Illya nodded. 

“I’m assuming I used the word correctly.”

“Yes, you did. And being an asshole for you, it’s nothing new.”

In a move, that’s both surprisingly bold and undeniably terrible, Illya surged forward and kissed Napoleon then. He did not know why he did it. Maybe it was the way that damn black shirt Napoleon was wearing settled neatly across his shoulders, or the clean turn of his jaw, or how cautiously forgiving Napoleon was. Maybe it was because of his damn blue eyes, that’s bright and always distracting, or how there was still rain caught in his eyelashes and hair, even. Maybe he had kissed Napoleon like it was an apology. Maybe it was a thank you, some attempt at gratitude for being there for him when Illya knew he hadn’t deserved it. Maybe it was all of those reasons in Illya’s head, trying to justify the reasons for him kissing Napoleon. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he had wanted to ever since he realised life was too short for them and that he didn’t want to regret not ever taking his chance to do so.

A soft noise, a surprised exhalation of the lungs, and Napoleon’s mouth opened under Illya’s, the feel of his lips warm and natural and god, _God_ , Napoleon pulled apart after a few moments, hands warm against Illya’s chest, a gentle sort of pressure, his eyes questioning. The silence between them thickened and both men stood there looking at each other, not knowing what to say to the other. 

“Peril…”

Napoleon paused, searching for words, and Illya felt an ache in his chest, his gut twisting. What the fuck was he doing kissing Napoleon like that? What did he think he was going to accomplish by doing what he had just done? Would Napoleon understand or had he just ruined their comfortable camaraderie which had taken time to build? 

“Illya,” Napoleon said again, trying to garner his partner’s attention but Illya only shook his head, muttered what sounded like _‘I’m sorry’_ and was already out the kitchen door in a flash, leaving a frustrated and confused Napoleon behind, before he could say what was on his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon, who was usually so very perceptive, wasn’t seeing the problem clearly, or maybe, he had been too blinded by his belief that Gaby was the one Illya had eyes for.

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

Napoleon spoke first after he found Illya sitting on his sofa.

Almost five minutes had passed after _that_ kiss before he finally appeared from the kitchen. He had needed to gather his thoughts, had racked his brains trying to figure out why Illya had done what he did. Because Illya had never shown any interest in him previously, and he probably would’ve been appalled if he ever found out Napoleon’s own tendencies. Even so, Napoleon had never been shy to flirt with Illya and he had always gotten that killer glare from the Russian for his efforts. He couldn’t deny Illya had always enthralled him from the start, his attraction for his partner an unwanted distraction he could do without. And Gaby was the one Illya’s enamoured with, not him. So why the hell did Illya kiss him not a few minutes ago? The way he had acted had turned Napoleon inside out, his logical thinking thrown straight out the window. And seeing him in his living room, Napoleon was somewhat surprised to find him still there but glad, nevertheless. At least he had not bolted out of the apartment. And now Napoleon needed answers.

“You can’t just run away after what you’d done.”

“I’m not,” Illya shrugged, trying to act like his heart was not racing. But it was. It was beating so hard, it felt like he had run a marathon. And Napoleon looked too calm for someone who had just been kissed by his very male partner. Illya had expected a more dramatic reaction from him and yet there he was standing before Illya looking so unaffected, it irked him how that could be. Honestly, the kiss had been chaste, but Illya’s own lips were still tingling from it.

“Peril, let me reiterate that you’re an asshole. But I don’t take you for a coward.”

“Solo, don’t.”

He tore his eyes away from Napoleon’s and looked down at his feet. His hands were clasped together, elbows leaning on his knees. Illya bit his lips, hard enough for him to taste blood and cursed. Napoleon, who was usually so very perceptive, wasn’t seeing the problem clearly, or maybe, he had been too blinded by his belief that Gaby was the one Illya had eyes for.

“It was a mistake.”

“You kissing me?”

The disbelief in Napoleon’s voice made Illya look up. “Yes, it was. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m…I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t prepared to admit to something as huge as his own want for Napoleon, so Illya had to tell him the weakest lie imaginable but from the look on Napoleon’s face then, his American counterpart hadn’t been too convinced. Illya had hoped Napoleon would at least try to play along. Because he should be horrified about what Illya had done, and he should be thankful that Illya’s admitting it had been a mistake. Instead, he was pressing on for answers.

“You’re still clearly upset about what had happened to Gaby. And then you kissed me? I do not think you could confuse kissing me as the same as you would Miss Teller.”

“Is not about Gaby. Never was about Gaby.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Napoleon at that little bit of revelation and he looked more confused than ever.

“Then what is this about, Peril? Because if we were hiding from enemies, you could use the excuse of a distraction to kiss me. But I can fairly say we weren’t in any danger of that.”

“No, we weren’t,” Illya answered flatly.

“Then what?”

Napoleon’s eyes were boring on him like daggers, and even if Illya was trying his damnedest to ignore it, he knew he had to come out with some kind of explanation. And the longer he looked at Napoleon, the stronger he wanted to admit to every single thing he was feeling for him. But Illya managed to hold back from spewing out words he feared he would regret later. He didn’t want to lose Napoleon due to his stupidity. Because he remembered what it had felt like, thinking he had somehow lost his partner during the mission in Portugal.

And suddenly Illya was talking.

“In Lisbon, when we found you, I thought we were too late. I thought you had…”

Illya didn’t finish his sentence. And he needn’t to. Because Napoleon understood what he was talking about. Because he remembered exactly what had happened in Portugal.

UNCLE’s mission to infiltrate and dismantle THRUSH’s network in Lisbon and in Almada had required Napoleon to go undercover. He had smuggled his way into their enemy’s ranks and it had been easy enough. But one wrong move and Napoleon had gotten himself caught. He was then tortured for information, because of course, THRUSH would want to know for whom he had worked for. But he had withstood everything thrown his way, even at certain points he had felt like breaking.

_In KGB, we are trained to withstand torture. Never give away classified information, even if it means giving up your life. Are you trained for this, Cowboy?_

Illya’s voice had rung in his ears as he endured the beatings. He had pictured the Russian’s smirk, and it had given him the determination to prove to Illya that he was just as good a spy like Illya was. So he had trudged on because he had trusted Illya and the rest of UNCLE to find him. And they had managed to, eventually, two days later in some dingy old abandoned warehouse, tied to a rusty iron post, all bloodied and weak.

“What did they do to you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. And I didn’t tell them anything useful,” he had croaked when Illya had released his raw and reddened wrists. “You must be proud of me, Peril.”

His partner hadn’t said a thing, only helped Napoleon out of his bonds with too gentle hands and eyes that betrayed his stoicalness. Gaby, however, hadn’t been too calm at seeing Napoleon’s rather deplorable state. “Waverly shouldn’t have sent you alone.”

Her voice had wavered, tears had pooled in her eyes.

“I’m fine, Gaby,” Napoleon had assured her although Illya had not been too convinced of his words. He had been quiet all the while as they made their way carefully out of THRUSH’s lair, but that remark from Napoleon had been the last straw for Illya.

“Stupid American. This could have been avoided if you had listened to instructions. If you had waited a little longer. But of course, no. You had to be Napoleon Solo.”

“Boys, please,” Gaby had warned. And that was all it had taken. A foolish argument between themselves and they had failed to realise they hadn’t even cleared the danger yet, they had failed to notice a THRUSH agent lurking in one of the corners of their escape route. And that was when they had heard her scream. The shot had gone off too quickly for either of them to react. Between that split second, Gaby had let go of her hold on Napoleon’s arm, had fallen to the ground with blood fast spreading on her chest, eyes closing despite Napoleon’s frantic cries. And every night just before sleepiness took over him, Napoleon would replay the horrific event in his mind. And he would see Illya’s horror-filled eyes, the blood on his hands as he had carried Gaby’s limp body away from the carnage he had created, killing each and every THRUSH agents he could find still hiding in that warehouse.

“When Gaby got shot, I was angry. I had been careless. Too preoccupied with stupid arguments and I had said things to you, Cowboy, things I did not mean. And I want to say sorry, that’s why I agreed to come here. But I don’t want to make things more complicated than it already is.”

“What _is_ complicated, Peril?”

Illya sighed. “Us. Working together. Again. From the beginning, it was already a bad idea, no? USA. Russia. Gaby said it was bad idea. But we made it work. I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

Napoleon shook his head. He stepped nearer, now not a foot away from Illya.

“But I think you’d made it even more complicated, now. Don’t you think?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Solo. Like I said, it was a mistake.”

“A mistake.”

Illya desperately wanted, _needed_ Napoleon to believe him, so he minced his words and lied.

“It is the truth.”

“So kissing me was your form of an apology.”

Illya had struggled to resist his own urges and now Napoleon was giving him an out, perhaps, to end this ridiculous charade, even if it was the lamest reason he could think of. Maybe Napoleon was tired of it as well, tired of Illya’s evasiveness and didn’t want to prolong it any further. He almost looked like he wanted to believe Illya. And Illya should take what was being given to him. So he nodded. He nodded and hoped Napoleon would not ask him any further.

Frustrated by his own failings to pry Illya open, Napoleon finally relented.

“Well it surely is a strange way to say you’re sorry.”

Illya’s heart sink a little hearing Napoleon’s defeated reply but before he could say anything else, Napoleon waved a dismissive hand at him. “I don’t feel like cooking after all this, whatever _this_ was. Shall we just go out for dinner then?”

Illya’s surprised at Napoleon’s willingness to change the subject. Usually, he was more hard-headed and would not back down easily. But this time, he had simply given in despite the unmistakable bitterness that had crept in his voice. And the expression that flicked across his face, Illya was certain he had seen hurt. But it was gone in a matter of seconds, and he was back to being the Napoleon Solo he’d known the past year or so, his handsome face returning to a more characteristic expression, something more familiar and comfortable for the both of them, a smirk that telegraphed his next few words.

“There’s a restaurant not a few blocks away from here. I think you’d like their food.”

Illya was cautious at first at Napoleon’s invitation. He saw Napoleon grabbing their jackets that were hanging on the coat stand. Wordlessly, he handed over Illya’s suede one before putting on his own, neatly zipping it up to brave the dreadful weather outside. Illya looked up at his face before standing to his feet. He saw the slightest of smiles adorning Napoleon’s face, and he returned it in kind, in relief, that the entire thing hadn’t ruined everything. Maybe it had because God knows Napoleon was a fantastic actor, but Illya was willing to push it aside. For the moment, this between them was okay, this was good.

And this, Illya could handle.

 

***

 

The weather cleared with his mood. Illya woke up the next day to the feeling of lightly filtered sun spilling across his back and the smell of coffee sneaking into his room. He had taken Napoleon’s extra bedroom as his own, the one facing the sprawling Central Park, and when he got to his feet, he walked over to the window to see New Yorkers going about their morning daily routine. When they had been in Portugal, Illya recalled the heavy pollutant hanging in the air on the worst days, clouding everything like a faint fog. Perhaps he had felt it especially when Napoleon had gone missing, diffusing colours and blurring shapes, just like his thoughts, so hard he had to squint sometimes. But Gaby had held him together then, had managed to convince him that they would find Napoleon. He was glad for her, and when she had gotten shot, Illya had feared the worst.

“I’ve made coffee and toast for you.”

Illya found Napoleon sitting in the living room a little while later, with a book in his hand. The memory of the night before still lingered in Illya’s mind, and although he rued what he had done, he was glad the slight awkwardness between them had dissipated. Their friendship was more important than anything else. And as he stood there by his bedroom door, he noticed something different that morning with his partner, something that was hard for him to lay his fingers on. Maybe it was the light stubble he was sporting, maybe it was his hair. Either way, it took some time for him to acknowledge Napoleon, as he squinted his eyes at his partner. Again in a casual shirt and dark coloured khaki pants, Napoleon looked more endearing than before, causing Illya’s insides to ache.

“After breakfast, I’ll take you around Long Island.”

“Is this a good idea?”

Napoleon, who was now sitting across Illya at the kitchen table as the Russian took his breakfast, immediately put down his book in front of him and smiled.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Illya took a sip of his coffee before shaking his head. “I’m just trying to be careful.”

“We’re not CIA or KGB anymore, Peril, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’re UNCLE agents, so you can relax.”

“But Waverly…”

“I know what Waverly had said, he’s just trying to be cautious. I think we can handle ourselves.”

Illya was still apprehensive but Napoleon would have none of his negativity.

“Look, the weather’s better today. We should make the most of it rather than sit around here doing nothing. And since you love beaches, there’s one I’d like you to see.”

“Well, I guess I’ve got no choice but to follow then,” Illya muttered in resignation, rolling his eyes. It made Napoleon laugh and something in Illya just swelled knowing he had been the cause of that laughter.

 

***

 

They ended up eating doughnuts as they stood outside a cafe at Cherry Grove Beach. It tasted like any other doughnuts Illya had eaten before, except its dough was softer than the ones he had previously tasted. Napoleon had his hands on some chocolate coated ones, not the traditional ones like Illya had, and he was licking the chocolate off from the inside curve of his thumb and Illya couldn’t help but feel like he was doing it on purpose. And while they stood there, they had gotten a couple of knowing glances and smirks from a few beach goers, and soon, Illya started to feel a tad uncomfortable.

“Why are some people looking at us like that?”

Napoleon, after finishing the last bite of his doughnut, turned to Illya and grinned a little.

“What do you perceive they were looking at us like?”

Illya frowned at his partner. “It is like they are judging us.”

“Ignore them, Peril, you’re just being paranoid,” Napoleon said with nonchalance. “And why would it matter at all, to you, how they look at us?”

“I don’t know,” Illya muttered lowly.

Immediately, he tore his gaze away from Napoleon, because what he had said, well it was a little too close for comfort for Illya. It did matter, because, if a perfect stranger could see right through him, if _anyone_ could see how he was looking at Napoleon, then Napoleon would have known he had lied through his teeth the night before. 

Seeing Illya’s edginess, Napoleon then began explaining the significance of that beach to calm his partner from worrying too much.

“Peril, this beach,” Napoleon began tentatively, “It’s a bit more laid-back than the more popular Pines Beach, but there are still clubs, bars and restaurants tucked among the cottages along the beach where you can shoot the breeze and dance with the queer people.”

Illya frowned in confusion at Napoleon’s sentence. “Queer people? What do you mean?”

“Homosexuals, Illya. This beach is quite famous for them. Although in a hush-hush manner.”

Illya gulped, and then his face turned dark.

“You brought me here, just to mock me? Was that why those people were looking at us? Because they think we’re…”

And then Illya stopped. He realised Napoleon hadn’t taken his ruse yesterday. And this was just his way of bringing out the truth from Illya. He understood now why Napoleon had brought him here. Angry, he quickly turned so he could get away from his partner but Napoleon grabbed his wrist before he could get very far.

“I brought you here because I know you like beaches. And it’s the nearest one to my place.”

“But why here?! Why specifically here? Is it because I had kissed you and you take it that I am one? One of _them_?”

Horrified at how those words had come out of Illya’s mouth like venom, Napoleon quickly released Illya’s wrist he was holding on to and shook his head at once.

“No! No, Illya. Because I’d said we should be doing all those tourist stuff when you’re in New York. And honest, honest, I had planned on bringing you here even before that charade between us yesterday. Believe me. The queer thing was simply a coincidence.”

“Charade?” Illya husked, his stomach turning into knots. “It _wasn’t_ a charade, Solo.”

Napoleon sighed. “Then whatever you want to call it, Illya.”

“Solo,” Illya warned.

“I’m sorry, Peril, if you think I’d offended you. It never was my intention.”

How was Illya ever going to win arguments with Napoleon? Because he wouldn’t and never could, especially when Napoleon was looking at him like that, with apologetic eyes and lips downturned slightly. And Illya couldn’t help himself, couldn’t take it while looking at Napoleon then, and throughout the day later, as his partner ran his fingertips along the various artworks in some museum he’d brought Illya to. Illya watched as Napoleon craned his head to look at beautiful paintings, the stretch of his neck too delectable for Illya not to stare at, he couldn’t help but want to press his lips there. This ridiculous man, this thief of hearts who was able to charm any woman or man if he wanted to, was fast becoming Illya’s bane. And there was nothing cautious about Napoleon Solo in New York, where every word and sight was a natural thing to him, nothing guarded or reserved. It was a subtle thing, a slight shift in the slant of his shudders, and the openness of his blue eyes, but it jumped out at Illya as something unusual, something unusual but good. Too good, in fact. And maybe he was imagining it but being in New York, Illya felt like he seemed to be more susceptible to Napoleon.

And the American was definitely using it to his advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya’s a confused puppy. He wants Napoleon but doesn’t want to risk his friendship with Napoleon at the same time. I think that’s just how Illya is. It’ll take time before he’ll finally acknowledge what he wants. And that Cherry Grove beach, did a little reading on that, so I'd used that little bit of info and used it for my story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were standing in front of an old run-down building in Queens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because all of you are so lovely, here is another update :) Mistakes are all mine.

Illya should have knocked on Napoleon’s bedroom door first before pushing it open. That morning, he had woken up early and figured it would be a nice gesture if he could prepare his host breakfast for a change, even if the American had said he was hopeless at cooking. He had wanted to tell Napoleon he was going to run down to the store to get some eggs. And then, he had seen his partner putting on his shirt after his morning shower. On any other day, that sight might have gotten a different kind of reaction from Illya, but Napoleon’s marred skin as a result of being tortured by THRUSH had left Illya rooted to the spot, unable to look away. Some of the scars still looked red and fresh and Illya did not want to think about what Napoleon had to endure.

“You don’t have to wear that sorry look, Peril.”

Napoleon appeared from his room fully dressed a minute later. And if Illya was trying to act like he had not been affected by what he had seen, then he was not doing a very good job at hiding it. His hands were trembling, his jaws clenching as he fought back biting words.

“Scars will heal. They always do,” Napoleon said, trying to convince Illya that everything will be okay but the Russian shook his head at him.

“But it is not easily forgotten.”

“No. But like I’d said before, this is our job. Unfortunately, sometimes, we get hurt in the process. What happened then wasn’t the first time for me and you know this.”

A wry smile formed on Illya’s lips. “You have bad habit for getting hurt. A lot. It is unfortunate for me as partner.”

“You worry about me?” Napoleon asked, and there was mirth in his eyes, and Illya found himself grappling for words. He had seen Napoleon getting hurt too many times, and with each occurrence, Illya feared there would come a day when he wouldn’t be able to save him.

“Worrying about each other is not good, especially in this spying business.”

Illya’s admission made Napoleon sigh. Slowly, without Illya realising it, he had placed a hand on his arm, gripping it like an assurance.

“No, it isn’t. And hell, if I were to tell you how many times I worry…”

And then Napoleon just stopped. Eyes never leaving Illya’s, he then muttered, “I too worry about you, about Gaby, and it sucks, it really does suck, because damn, I was fine before this. Never had this problem before but all had changed after Rome, wouldn’t you say so, Peril?”

Illya ducked his head for a moment because he couldn’t say anything to that and when he looked up once again, there was an easy smirk on Napoleon’s lips, his eyes twinkling. Illya frowned.

“I do not see the humour in this. Why are you smiling?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. But just remember, next time, do knock the door first before you come barging into my room?”

Illya could only scowl in irritation because Napoleon was changing the subject and he’s trying to make light of a serious situation just like always. And before he could get angry, Napoleon had already put himself at a safe distance from Illya just in case the Russian decided he wanted to knock his teeth out.

“Come on, let’s go to that cafe I took you the other day and after that, there is this place I want you to see.”

“I hope this is not some kind of surprise just like the other day, Cowboy.”

Illya was a bit sceptical after what had happened at Cherry Grove Beach, and Napoleon couldn’t fault him for it. But he was already out the door before Illya could protest further. Grumbling to himself, Illya quickly followed suit. In a way, it was good to get out of the apartment. He needed to breathe, because he couldn’t, once again, start the day with thoughts of Lisbon and THRUSH, of everything he ever hated lingering in his mind.

 

***

 

New York, or The Big Apple, or The City That Never Sleeps, or whatever else it was called (why on earth would one place needed so many nicknames anyway?), was beautiful in its own way. And Illya could see why Napoleon was so at ease here. Cowboy loved the arts and he had heard his partner say how the city was like a cultural capital. It seemed to be in the air, like part of the weather, part of Napoleon’s life. And Illya envied it a little. But that didn’t stop him from following his partner around the city as he took Illya to various theatres and museums. He did decline when Napoleon suggested he took Illya to a Broadway musical.

“You’d read about my parents, about how my father was a janitor. Once, when I was about fourteen, he saved enough money to take me to one. It’s called _‘On The Town’_ , about three American sailors on shore leave during wartime in 1944. They met and connected with a woman. It had been my first experience to see a musical.”

They were standing in front of an old run-down building in Queens. It was where Napoleon had lived with his parents, and it was sobering for Illya, trying to picture a young Napoleon and his father, how they had lived, how his life had been then before he had been drafted into the army at the age of sixteen and not eighteen like what had been written on his dossier when Illya had gotten them from Oleg. Napoleon had lied about his age and when he had admitted it to Illya during their second assignment after Rome, Illya’s impression on his partner, unlike when he had first met him, dramatically changed. And at that moment, Illya realised he had never seen Napoleon, who was always joking around, always nonchalant with that smirk on his face, looking so melancholic as he spoke about his father.

“Before you say anything, Peril, yes, I do miss him. I was close to my dad. I heard about his passing after the war had ended. I was still in France then. And my mother didn’t take it too well. She died too, not long after that.”

“I’m sorry, Cowboy,” Illya muttered, the only thing he could say. He did not know how to get rid of the tightness in his chest at that moment. There were things he wanted to tell Napoleon, many things he wanted to ask. At the same time, he wanted to reach out and put his arms around his partner, like a comforting gesture, but all of it only remained in his head.

“In a way, it’s good they’re gone. Can you imagine what Victoria would’ve done if she wanted to get her revenge on me? She’d get to my parents first.”

“She is dead. There is no need to talk about that woman,” Illya said, knowing exactly who Napoleon was talking about.

He was angry at the idea, of anyone hurting Napoleon and his family, and even though Victoria Vinciguerra’s words would never get to be fulfilled, Illya would do anything to protect Napoleon from anyone else who wanted to hurt him.

“So maybe we should go to this musical,” Illya voiced out later as they were walking towards the nearest subway station to get home and Napoleon, seemingly surprised at Illya’s sudden change of heart, chuckled.

“You don’t have to. I merely suggested it because, well, that’s the only thing we haven’t done so far. I’ve taken you to art galleries, bookstores, museums, beaches, although that beach experience almost ended in disaster.”

Illya tried to ignore Napoleon’s quip about their visit to _that_ beach and simply shook his head.

“No. You asked me to come to New York and had done all this for me when you didn’t have to.”

“What did I do?”

Illya shrugged. “Take me to places, do all these tourist things. Even if some of it is a little bit too much for me.”

Napoleon laughed. “Are you complaining?”

“Not really,” Illya smiled. And then, he repeated himself. “Maybe we should go to this musical.”

“Really, Peril? You sure you won’t regret it?”

“Maybe not. But if I do, you can always buy me a drink after that.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and he looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he only smiled and nodded.

 

***

 

Two nights later, Napoleon took Illya to see _‘Golden Boy’_ , and as much as Illya would hate to admit it, he had really enjoyed the musical. He could relate to the story, about the son of poverty-stricken immigrants, about his struggles and of what he would do to gain his ambitions.

“So, since you liked it, I guess you won’t be buying me that drink then?”

Illya remembered what he had said, and Napoleon wasn’t being subtle about what he wanted. For the time being, Portugal was momentarily forgotten and the past few days had been a discovery of things for Illya, about what Napoleon was to him. He was more than just a partner, he was a friend Illya could rely on and he knew Napoleon cared. And even though it scared him, because doing what he was wouldn’t solve his problem of that longing want for the American, Illya couldn’t resist the temptation that was laid bare in front of him. He feared it would all end up in flames but for now, Illya would take it.

They eventually had tapas in a small but crowded Spanish restaurant a few blocks away from Napoleon’s apartment building and Napoleon ended up teaching Illya some Spanish cuisine words written on the menu, to little avail, because how would anyone, let alone a proud Russian like Illya, pronounce some word that had five consonants in a row? It was funny, though, and Illya indulged Napoleon because he would not trade seeing his muffled laughter and the crinkle of his eyes with anything else. And the atmosphere, the noise in the restaurant coupled with dark wine and massive scallops that did taste like the sea, and attempting to cobble together some hilariously awkward combination of English and simple Spanish, were something Illya never thought he’d endure with Napoleon. A few weeks back, the idea of _this_ had seemed bleak. Illya had seen him bloodied, had thought he’d lost Gaby, and now, here they were in that moment, least they had forgotten they were still spies working for some secret government organisation.

Everything was nice, nice and simple and content, almost perfect even, and Illya thought, _‘it would be so easy to leave everything and be happy here, with him.’_

Later, after dinner, Napoleon brought him to a bar, with yet another Spanish name Illya could not pronounce. He had told his partner that it was a terrible idea and that it was late, but Napoleon only chided him, telling him that they needed this. The bartender greeted them when they stepped through the door, and the other people there; old men, middle-aged fathers with teenage boys and a few couples, looked at them for a moment and then carried on with their business. There were none of those judgemental looks Illya had seen at the beach the other day and he was grateful Napoleon did not say a thing, even if he had seen that bit of uncertainty on Illya’s face.

“Enjoying your night so far?”

Illya eyed his partner, and he nodded. “It’s been good, Cowboy.”

Every day since that pivotal moment in Rome, when Illya had decided he couldn’t kill this American he had to call his partner, there had always been the question of what Napoleon would allow him to do. Would he allow Illya in his life like a friend? And how far would he let him? Illya could easily kill him if he wanted to, could choke him in his sleep based on the trust Napoleon had given him. And in turn, Napoleon could easily do it to Illya too. Maybe he still could, someday. And in some ways, he was already doing it. Illya had let him messed with his head, with his mind. And hell, it was getting worse by the minute.

The next hour or so was a blur. A couple of empty beer bottles between them at first (Illya had teased Napoleon, saying he thought Napoleon would only drink the most expensive scotch or wine), and then Napoleon had ordered vodka, just to prove to Illya that he could handle the bitter taste of it. Illya wasn’t sure what time it was when they finally left the bar, but the night air was cool and the streets still noisy enough for a Saturday night. He felt a little light on his feet, and had heard himself mutter, _‘what was in those drinks beside alcohol?’_ And he might be a little intoxicated, but he was definitely aware of Napoleon’s hand against his elbow, breath a little too close to his ear.

“Waverly would have a heart attack if he saw us like this.”

“You’re the one asking me not to worry about him, and now you talk about him.”

Napoleon laughed. “Ah, Peril, I just love to wind you up.”

When they reached Napoleon’s apartment, the room was aptly dark as they entered, and Napoleon tripped on himself, despite being the smooth, smooth person that he was. Illya was quick to grab him before he could fall, half pulled Napoleon upright, his reflexes still working despite everything. They were, Illya realised, standing very close in the narrow hallway, inches apart, hands on each other’s arms. Napoleon, even if he was drunk (or was he really?), was looking straight at him and in the dimness of the room, as their eyes adjusted to the lights from outside the apartment flittering into the room, all Illya could see then were the whites of his eyes, the wet curve of his mouth. He didn’t let go, though, despite his heart hammering in his chest, but when he’s about to open his mouth, to say something, maybe to protest about what they were about to do, Napoleon shook his head.

“Stop. Just, stop. Whatever it is you want to say, don’t.”

And Illya didn’t. And he completely forgot what he wanted to say a moment later.

_I think I’m somewhat drunk, and you’re definitely are, and this is a fucking terrible idea, Cowboy. I mean it, it is a bad idea._

The words swirled in Illya’s head, but Napoleon’s mouth was on him, bodies pressed together, one hand cool against his skin and the other pinning him against the wall. Illya suddenly remembered how he’s supposed to be the stronger one, stronger than Napoleon, and then all thoughts were turned to nought when Napoleon’s fingers started working his shirt open, lazy and bizarrely efficient at the same time, and Illya felt he could get used to this feeling.

“Solo...”

“Shh,” Napoleon murmured against his parted lips, “this is what you want, right?”

“Napoleon...”

“Because if it’s Gaby you want, you wouldn’t have kissed me the other day. You wouldn’t have done that to her. Because you’re loyal. So very loyal. And people like you wouldn’t do that to someone they care about.”

Like suddenly struck by lightning, what Napoleon had said shook Illya back to reality.

“No. _No_ ,” he grunted, angry and ashamed because Napoleon had read him well enough. Illya tried to push him away but Napoleon’s hold on Illya didn’t budge, and he shook his head, looked at Illya in the eye.

“See, this is where you’re wrong. Because I want this too, Illya.”

Illya cursed, let his head fall back against the wall behind him. Napoleon had done some thinking and he was right, _he was right_ , and now he had just admitted he wanted this as well. Illya’s willpower was crumbling fast and he didn’t know what else to do.

“Cowboy, please, you…you will regret this. You’re drunk.”

“Maybe I am, but are you that stupid not to have seen it all this while?”

Not being able to take it anymore, especially after hearing Napoleon saying something like an almost confession to what he was feeling, Illya lost it. He flipped their positions around so he was the one doing the pinning. A shocked gasp escaped Napoleon’s mouth at Illya’s quick movement and he grinned.

“That’s more I like it.”

Illya groaned as he leaned his forehead against Napoleon’s. He had been wanting Napoleon for so long, he couldn’t remember when it had all started. Maybe it had been in Berlin, or maybe it had been when he first saw Napoleon’s hand wrapped around a mark, because Illya always hated seeing him with anyone else. Lost in his thoughts, Illya almost missed it when Napoleon’s hand lightly carressed the curve of his neck.

“Come on, Peril, take what is yours.”

“I didn’t know you were mine to take,” Illya croaked, voice hoarse, and Napoleon smiled that smile of his and at that sight, Illya finally, _finally_ , gave in to temptation.

Napoleon’s soon rendered speechless when Illya’s mouth started roaming his brows, his cheeks, and then his arched neck, and down along his chest (when did Illya undo the buttons of his shirt?), taking his time with his clever lips, teeth nipping his skin, tongue tracing his scars, and Napoleon shivered, gripped a hand in Illya’s hair. Obviously, Illya had forgotten, or was still trying to forget what he had denied all this while, of how wrong and incredibly fucked up the entire thing could still end up for them both. But Napoleon’s breathless moans made it so easy for Illya to forget.

“Oh, _fuck_ , but you’ve got a talented mouth, Peril,” Napoleon managed to get out when he felt those lips roaming where he really wanted it to be before Illya shut him up for good a second later.

 

***

 

“I thought I was in love with Chop Shop girl, but, after Rome, it did not work out like I had expected it to.”

They were lying side by side on Napoleon’s bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and in a move that felt a little awkward, Illya started to talk. He did not know what propelled him to do it. Maybe it was the alcohol still wrecking havoc in his brain after years of careful moderation. Maybe it was the feel of Napoleon’s fingers in his hair, slow methodical circles that rubbed against his scalp. Maybe there was no reason at all, other than the sudden jolting reminder of what their lives really were, of what loneliness had felt like, something he hadn’t quite remembered, realised, until he had met Napoleon. And that was the thing about them being spies, that people didn’t realise that their lives were not really theirs. They simply act because of what were given to them, governed by this unwanted leash, even if their leash now was much better than before. And now what Illya had with Napoleon and Gaby was much scarier, the thought of losing either one of them, something he could not and would not be able to bear. It was terrifying and awful, because Illya had wondered what it would be like to have people he actually loved and cared about, and now that he had them, Illya didn’t know if he was blessed or cursed.

“I know you love her, but maybe, it’s not that kind of love, Peril.”

Illya hummed. “Maybe it was a mistake. On my part. I did not see it clearly.”

“But _this_ certainly wasn’t a mistake.”

Napoleon was telling Illya what he had wanted to hear and Illya, if only slightly, turned to look at him. Napoleon had entwined his fingers with Illya’s, and now his thumb was brushing his knuckles, light but yet, affirming. It was a tentative sort of gesture at first, cautious, but then seconds later he propped himself up on one elbow and looked straight at Illya, eyes an honest reassurance. Illya could have sworn he had stopped breathing for a second, at Napoleon’s look, at the pure simple kindness of it, of _him_.

“Do you trust me?”

Leaning up, Illya curled his hand around Napoleon’s neck, the one that’s not being held captive by Napoleon, pulled him down and kissed his lips lightly before murmuring, “Yes. I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) In the stories I'd written (that I can remember), I've always pictured Napoleon as an only child.  
> 2) I wikipedia'd the musicals. They are actual musicals in the 40's and 60's.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It suddenly occurred to Illya that maybe he was not the only one trying to pull off some great act of escapism, a disappearing trick. He was not the only one looking for some way to pretend. To forget.

They were in a record store in downtown New York and Illya watched with keen eyes as Napoleon wandered around, browsing and picking up records from shelves, at the same time taking his time to admire some of the beautiful cover arts on display. He wanted to get a record for Gaby, said it would be a nice little gift for her when they get to see her again. And even if it was something Illya was looking forward to, because, of course, he had missed the feisty little German, he was also dreading the time when they would get that call from Waverly. When the time came for them to return to work, to UNCLE. This dream world Illya had been living for more than a week would be over. He kept his worry to himself, though, never mentioned a word of it to Napoleon.

As he waited for Napoleon to complete his purchase, a jazzy song with its catchy tune was being played in the store and Illya couldn’t help but listen to the lyrics. The singer with his soft baritone voice was crooning about love, and how love was the only thing he could offer his lover, and that love wasn’t just a game for two. Was the singer of this song reading Illya’s current state of mind? Because at the moment, all he could think about was Napoleon, and what had developed between them especially in the last couple of days was something Illya couldn’t explain using mere words. In fact, words were never enough, never did when it came to his partner, not even if Illya was an accomplished writer.

_‘Two in love can make it’_ the song continued on, and a small smile suddenly formed on his lips. Shaking his head, Illya tried to ignore the notion that he was in love. If Napoleon were to ask him that question, Illya himself wouldn’t know; wouldn’t know what to say or do or even know how to understand it.

While lost in his thoughts, he had lost sight of his partner and panicked for a second or two when he could not find him. When he eventually did, Illya saw Napoleon talking to a young lady standing behind the cashier counter, his words polite and gentlemanly, smiling and nodding and not realising what he was doing, Illya had moved in closer until he was right behind Napoleon. Once near enough, he placed one hand on the American’s shoulder like a gentle caress, and when Napoleon turned with a surprised look on his face at Illya’s gesture, Illya immediately stepped away from him. He realised his mistake at once. He had been too forward.

_‘Not here, Illya, not in public’_ , Napoleon’s eyes seemed to say, and face flushed, Illya nodded.

“Sorry.”

“I,” Napoleon gestured helplessly, and then, “there are people here. We’ve to be careful.”

Illya stared at him for a few seconds, took a few further steps backwards, slow and deliberate, finally looked away.

“Fine. All right. I understand,” he muttered clumsily before quickly exiting the store to wait for Napoleon outside.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon started when he found Illya around the corner of the store building, leaning against the brick wall with eyes cast at the sky. The line of his profile was quiet, a little brittle, and the chilly weather at the edge of autumn had turned Illya’s nose rather pink.

“Illya,” Napoleon called him when he remained quiet. At his gentle pleading tone, Illya looked at his partner. He noticed the record in Napoleon’s hand, the one he had purchased for Gaby.

“So you got what you wanted?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then let’s go,” Illya said in a hurry, not waiting for Napoleon to finish, not even acknowledging Napoleon’s earlier apology.

“Illya,” Napoleon called out to him again. He had to catch up with Illya’s longer strides. When they’re side by side again, Napoleon grasped the Russian’s arm and turned him so they were face to face.

“We need to talk about what had happened in the store. I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

Illya stopped Napoleon before he could explain himself.

“No, I know. It’s okay, not your fault, Solo. I understand.”

Because it really wasn’t. And it was kind of funny when Illya thought about it again, funny in that unpleasant, sickening sort of way. Napoleon had not done anything wrong, and he had not changed at all. He’s the same as he was, the same person Illya had encountered back in Berlin, the same person who had greeted him a week or so back at the airport. Illya knew the only thing that had changed at all was him, and he felt as if everyone could see right through him now. Things were different and he did not know what to do or say or how to deal with the fact that he could not stop wanting to trace his hand along Napoleon’s spine, how to stop from wanting to touch him, to be close. It was stupid and frustrating and he just didn’t know what to do.

And Illya felt progressively worse for the next few hours, because he really didn’t mean for that little slip up to happen, or maybe he did because he had no idea what he was doing.

That evening, during dinner, Illya could feel the slight tension in the air between them. It was a little strange and unsettling after the pleasant few days they had spent together. The tap of silverware against their plates harsh in his ears, the news or whatever it was on the television at the moment increasingly annoying, grating at his nerves until Napoleon spoke.

“Is the chicken piccata too dry?”

Illya looked up from his plate. He had eaten half of his portion and was toying with the other piece, pushing it back and forth with his fork on the plate while his salad was still left untouched.

“It’s okay, Cowboy,” Illya answered. “I’m just a bit full.”

Of course, he wasn’t, and Napoleon could tell right through his lie.

Later, after they had cleaned up and Illya was standing by the window in Napoleon’s living room, looking at the city’s skyline, luminous in the night, Napoleon came up to stand right beside him.

“What do you want _this_ to be, Illya? This, between us.”

Illya hated the way Napoleon was so frank and straightforward about the important things. How there were some things he would never be able to ignore and delude himself into accepting. The way he was never afraid for longer than a moment.

Illya was silent at first, contemplating an answer. An answer fitting enough so he could make Napoleon understand that he wanted him. And he was selfish because that wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to be afraid of letting the world know too, even if he understood the idea was near impossible. But was it the same for Napoleon? He had asked Illya to trust him, and Illya had answered it as truthfully as he could, but now, he had his doubts. Maybe Napoleon hadn’t wanted it as much as him, or maybe they had wanted different things. Or maybe, it was just a game for the American and Illya’s the fool to have fallen for it. But Napoleon couldn’t be that cruel, could he?

“You ask me this when I don’t even know what _you_ want, Solo.”

He wasn’t sure where that had come from, how he had been brave enough to say it and for a second or two, Illya thought he might have made a mistake again. Napoleon shifted away from him, and Illya was sure Napoleon was going to leave him there standing alone, but then he turned to look at Illya, a hand now on Illya’s shoulder.

“If you know what I want you’d probably laugh,” Napoleon started nervously, bit his lips for a moment. Napoleon Solo, always the smooth talker, was suddenly a little hesitant with his words, but his eyes were telling Illya so much it made Illya’s heart flutter. Suddenly Illya felt like a boy waiting for his crush to admit everything he needed to hear.

“Tell me.”

Napoleon’s thumbs were brushing his knuckles now, and Illya could feel the light callous of them against his skin, and then Napoleon’s words came, sudden and unexpected and haltingly true.

“I want to go places with you, take a walk down those damn beaches you love so much without having to hide or care if anyone’s looking at us at all. Without having to worry if we’re going to get killed by THRUSH or by some megalomaniac that wants to rule the world. I want to take you to musicals and see that stupid grin on your face just like I’d seen the other day, even if you had objected the idea at first. I want to watch that stupid show again, the one we had watched the other day on television that had made you laugh so much. I want to see you play chess against yourself for the rest of my life and I want to understand why you love it and how you can be so happy playing that boring game alone. I want to see you happy, Peril, all the time. That’s what I want.”

Napoleon paused for a moment after realising he had talked for a while without stopping. He drew in a breath and then smiled. “I want to know everything there is about you that I haven’t already known and I want you to take me apart, over and over, just so you could put the pieces back together for me again.”

Illya looked down at their hands, fingers now weaved together. What Napoleon had told him, what he had just admitted, Illya almost felt like he’d been hit by something hard on the head.

“Illya? Did I make sense, or have I just scared you for good?”

Illya let out a little noise, which might have been a laugh, or an exhalation, half in amazement, half shuddering relief. He looked up again, and Napoleon had this lopsided grin and Illya knew he had been foolish with his stupid paranoia that Napoleon didn’t feel the same. He had been so, so foolish.

“You never told me this, before. Before this, even. Why?”

Napoleon shrugged. “I didn’t want you to strangle me to death, Peril. Can you imagine me telling you this a couple of months back? It would have been impossible. And, of course, the whole idea of me thinking you having the hots for Gaby. I couldn’t possibly admit to this before, could I?”

“No. You couldn’t.”

That was when Illya realised, and he should have known it before, that Napoleon was Napoleon. Everything he did embodied him as a person. Wholesome and true and despite the masks he constantly wears with everyone else, he was always true with Illya. He was infuriating, he could get under Illya’s skin and drive him mad without even trying, but he was the only one who could take away everything Illya had ever doubted before by just using words. But Illya feared, even if he didn’t want to, that there will come a day when everything will stop, and he would lose Napoleon, and he would be hopeless to stop it.

“But this isn’t going to last.”

It wasn’t really a question from Illya, more of a statement of what he was scared of the most. But Napoleon didn’t say a word, only took a step closer so he could kiss Illya on the lips.

“But maybe it will,” he muttered as he pulled away after the kiss.

“You’re always so optimistic,” Illya snorted and that made Napoleon chuckle.

“Someone has to be in this screwed up relationship of ours.”

Holding Napoleon at arm’s length, Illya then looked at Napoleon once more, eyes wary and sharp again like they had been when they first met, and it was strange seeing that, Napoleon thought.

“Are you good at pretending for a while?” Napoleon then asked.

“But this is not a game,” Illya protested, scowling, but Napoleon shook his head quickly, willed Illya to read what he was really trying to say.

And then Illya paused, and at that point in time, it felt as if he was on the edge of something awful or something good, he couldn’t decide. But it was a strange hovering sensation, the slow motion replay of the split second before a rain drop crashed onto the pavement as the sky broke, the feeling of inertia right before a crash. Illya paused, held his breath, and let it go again. Napoleon was there in front of him, waiting for his answer and Illya knew he would need to step off that ledge just so he could know and feel what it was like to fall, ignoring the horrid, inevitable end.

“Yes,” he finally replied in the end, “yes,” he repeated his answer, and Napoleon, relieved, kissed him again and muttered, “Okay.”

 

***

 

The dreaded, inevitable call from Waverly finally came.

Illya recalled the phone ringing and Napoleon answering it, turning away from him as he spoke, his words clipped and his tone serious. Illya knew it was Waverly. It had to be. Because, a few minutes later, after hanging up the call, Napoleon looked at him apologetically and walked out of the apartment without saying a word. But Illya was not going to let him get away easily. He followed his partner and found him standing by the balcony railing at the top of the apartment building, hands in his pockets, shoulders suddenly narrow and thin.

“Cowboy?”

Napoleon did not turn around or move at all. Illya’s heart started to beat a little faster but he braved himself, walked slowly until he was standing right next to him. He looked down at the alley below in silence before glancing at Napoleon. There was something tight and strained around his mouth and suddenly Illya did not know what to say.

“The investigation on UNCLE has concluded. We’ve been cleared to operate again. And Waverly’s declared the Portugal mission a success. Despite the mess, we’d managed to take down THRUSH’s network completely.”

Illya took in a deep breath and nodded. It was good news but there was no real joy in hearing that. His heart ached.

“And Gaby, she’s been cleared to return home. Although no vigorous activities, not until she’s fully recovered.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Illya’s shaky fingers were gripping the railing. And Napoleon noticed it straight away.

“Illya.”

Napoleon’s voice sounded softer than Illya’s ever heard him before.

“We’re adults, right?”

“Yes,” Illya answered. “Yes, we are.”

“So, as adults, we do not run away from things.”

“No, we do not.”

Napoleon was gripping the railing too now, head bowed low. After a while, he then turned around so his back was resting against it, head tilted towards the sky, then turned towards Illya as he spoke again.

“So what do we call this, Illya?”

It suddenly occurred to Illya that maybe he was not the only one trying to pull off some great act of escapism, a disappearing trick. He was not the only one looking for some way to pretend. To forget.

He stared at Napoleon then, the way his neck was arched back, the serious set of his eyes, the line of his face against the dusky sky behind him. Illya looked at him and for a moment, for a split second, there was nothing more profoundly striking in the entire world than this man and he could think of nothing but kissing Napoleon, so he did just that. Pulling his partner, grasping him by his arms, Illya kissed him long and hard. While their tongues danced and collided, Illya thought _‘this is what I want, Napoleon, this, this. And I will always remember you like this, and this is the way you should stay forever’_. And maybe, it was something like a trick of the light, a chemical imbalance in the brain. Maybe it was just something stupidly akin to love, the simple kind like how he loved the snow and the beaches, how Napoleon loved the arts. Slowly, after the kiss ended, Illya broke away. There were only a few centimetres separating their faces.

“We can call it whatever we want, Cowboy. It doesn’t really matter.”

Napoleon closed his eyes, let go of his hold from Illya, and smiled.

“Look at you, being so mature.”

“Someone has to be in this screwed up relationship of ours,” Illya shrugged, and Napoleon’s eyes lit up hearing that.

Instinctively, he pulled Illya down so he could capture his lips and as they kissed, the metalwork pressed lightly into Illya’s back, arms and legs and everything else fitted snugly together, slid into place, what with his hands in Napoleon’s hair, and then moving lower down to grip at the base of his neck. And Illya could not care at all if anyone was watching them. Because this was a celebration of life, meant for everyone to see, and the sun was low in the sky and lit everything around them into something golden and glorious and wonderful like a fairytale ending in a movie.

 

***

 

Illya remembered what it was like when it all started at the beginning. Everything was tentative and wary and calculating. But everything had changed. Sometimes he wondered where he would be now if he had killed Napoleon that day in Rome. Where and what would Illya be without him? Would he still be the KGB’s best? They were actually pointless questions because things had worked out for the best and Illya would hold on to this life; with Napoleon, with Gaby, and heck, even Alexander Waverly, like his life depended on it. And he would never leave them. Not two, or ten, or twenty years from now. Not while blood still flowed furiously through his veins. Maybe it was all fated. Because how else could he explain it, how else could anyone explain any of it? It’s a long-winded explanation to a simple question and it was the only answer Illya knew. Maybe that was why he had agreed to come to New York when Napoleon had asked him to. To get the answers to that simple question he always had in his head.

“Waverly wasn’t really angry when I’d told him you’re here with me in New York.”

“You let the cat out of the bag.”

“He said he’d figured it as much when he couldn’t contact you in Devon.”

Illya hummed. He tried in vain to peel his eyelids open as he sank further down into the sofa. It was already dark outside, typical of a late autumn day with its early sunset making the days shorter. The television was on, but Illya wasn’t paying attention to what was being shown. The air was slightly chilly despite the heater being on, but Napoleon’s arm was warm from where it lay flung across Illya’s chest.

“I’m just glad he’s not going to reprimand me for ignoring his orders.”

“He likes you too much to do that, Peril.”

Illya hummed again under his breath, the sound of it low and pleasant, like a satisfied cat’s purr, stretching out in the sun, before saying, “But I think I like you better.”

Napoleon grinned. “Well, you’d better.”

And Napoleon’s attempt at sounding stern might have worked if it wasn’t interrupted by his muffled yawn. They stay quiet for a while and then the sofa suddenly shifted as Napoleon propped himself up on his elbows. Illya opened his eyes for real this time and noticed Napoleon was studying him intently. Their faces were very close, almost touching. And Napoleon continued to stare at him for what seemed to be a long time, half his face flickering, shifting colours from the light of the television. It might have been uncomfortable a few months, a few weeks ago, even. Illya might have moved, might have said something stupid or try to push him away. He might even try to back up against the arm of the sofa at their close proximity. As it was, he stayed still, let himself be watched, and watched back, strangely curious. He noted the way his breath made the hair around Napoleon’s ear move a little, how a pool of shadow collected itself in the hollow between his collarbones. It felt incredibly surreal.

“I know what we should call this now, Peril. We’re two people that are emotionally compromised.”

When Napoleon finally broke the silence, it was quiet, but the words still felt as if they were travelling straight from his mouth into Illya’s, untouched by air. They had a physical, tangible feel to them as if Illya could sense each sound wave being absorbed into his skin.

“Are you saying that we are...?” Illya managed to say but he never finished his question because maybe it wasn’t the right time for confessions and men spoke in coded language when it came to the most intimate of feelings, although he might have an inkling of what Napoleon was saying. But the growing frown on Illya’s face was enough for Napoleon to know that he needed to shed some light on what was really, a very delicate matter.

“Peril, for the life of me, I never thought that we could end up like this. You and me. _All of this_. Even if the signs had been there.”

“Me neither, Cowboy,” Illya said, and then there was a hesitant, sad smile playing on his lips. “But it won’t be the same, though, will it? When we return to London.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried things will change.”

“We will not have this again.”

“Maybe not, but we’ll make it work.”

Illya sighed. “Waverly wants me to be there earlier. You’ve been given longer leave because of what had happened to you.”

“Well, it makes sense,” Napoleon murmured against Illya’s temple.

“But I wish I could stay here longer. With you.”

Napoleon rested his fingers against Illya’s mouth, a light pressure, hushing him up. “I wish you could too.”

They were silent for a few minutes before Napoleon spoke again, all thoughtful. “Illya, not everything has to change. In fact, it’d probably be the same. We just need to be careful, that’s all. And even if things change, they can still be good. Different, but good.”

Illya ran his fingers carelessly along Napoleon’s collarbone, before leaning down so he could press a kiss on his neck. He might not agree with everything Napoleon had said, but that was the best option for them at the moment.

“Gaby will be on our side,” he murmured against Napoleon’s jaw and that made Napoleon chuckle.

“Of course, she will.”

“But I am not so sure about Waverly.”

“You know, Waverly’s English. He might be already inclined to the idea of us.”

Illya only rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s ridiculous notion, and the American’s smile just grew wider seeing Illya’s exasperated look.

Much, much later, after debating enough whether Waverly would be horrified if he ever found out his two best agents were actually fraternising with one another, Napoleon fell asleep with his hair tickling the underside of Illya’s chin, while Illya’s arms were wrapped possessively around him, holding him close, thinking _‘things change, but you, Cowboy, please, I don’t ever want you to change’_ before drifting off as well. And on the television across the room, the station was signing off its broadcast with the American anthem playing softly on screen.

 

***

 

“Wait, Cowboy.”

Napoleon stopped and turned around. The airport was crowded, like always, and he could barely hear himself above the noise. He gave Illya a questioning look.

“Peril?”

“I’m glad I came to New York.”

But what Illya really meant and wanted to say was _‘thank you for being there for me. For those late dinners you had cooked, for those drinks we had at all those bars you took me, for that seemingly drunken kiss that started it all, and for being damn patient when I had been a stubborn bastard. Thank you for trying to put up with me in that quiet, determined way of yours. Thank you for making me see things clearly.’_

And after a brief hesitation, he added, “I’m glad you’d asked me to come.”

Napoleon inhaled deeply, and then, “It was all I could do. To make things better for you.”

The words were simple enough, but it meant so much to Illya. 

A break in the air and he looked as if he wanted to say so much more, to walk back towards Napoleon, _to stay_. But the moment passed and he lifted his hand, a slow wave towards his partner, eyes steady and assured. 

“I will see you in London.”

It took Napoleon a moment to react, as he watched Illya turn and walk away, headed towards his terminal. And then something warm and strong settled in his chest. Everything was going to be fine. No, it was going to more than just that. Napoleon could feel it in him and he couldn’t wait to see what the outcome would be. 

“I’ll see you around, Peril.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Credit the song I'd mentioned in the story is L.O.V.E by Nat King Cole, released in late 1964.  
> 2) It's interesting to note that back in the 60's, there was no 24 hours TV transmission hence, the signing off broadcast from TV stations usually ending with the national anthem.  
> 3) This chapter is slightly longer than the previous ones (hope you don't mind). I tried to keep the word count more or less the same, but really failed for this particular chapter. :P  
> 4) I tried to portray Napoleon as vulnerable as Illya when it came to their relationship. When initially he'd been the strong one, he obviously was not when Waverly's call finally came and requested their return to London.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Napoleon made him think of home too.

The jazzy soft music emanating from behind the closed door made Napoleon smile. It was the same record, the one he had purchased for Gaby with Illya in New York when he was with him, and Napoleon remembered it like it was yesterday. 

For a moment, he hesitated and braced one hand against the door of Illya’s apartment instead of knocking. He stood there with his eyes closed and tried to gather his thoughts.

A tiny bit of apprehension started to creep up on him. He was going to see Illya for the first time in weeks. The conversation they had before Illya had left New York, of whether things would change between them started to fill Napoleon’s mind. Illya had been scared of it and even if Napoleon had convinced him that nothing would change, he himself couldn’t deny the fact that he, too, was scared of losing what they had shared. After New York and being away from each other for nearly a month, Napoleon didn’t think of it as an option in his life, where he quantified it through events. And everything with Illya; from their initial meeting right up to when he had last seen him, mattered. 

Napoleon might not remember all the important dates though because months and numbers passed too quickly for him to hold on to. Instead, the sights and sounds were the ones that stick with him, skimming the surface of his mind like oil on water, something deceptive and ever-present. Late, sun-drenched afternoons, especially the ones with warm breezes and a taste of something golden in the air, never failed to make him think of Istanbul, the first time he had seen the real Illya. Every time Napoleon bit his lips and drew blood, Napoleon would think of them hunkered around somewhere hiding from danger, keeping the other safe. There were some good moments, some perfectly contained ones that separated themselves from the blur of slush and salt on the roads while on their missions. 

Napoleon knew there was no real logic behind these associations, no pattern or explanation. It was just how his brain worked. 

When he first arrived in New York after the Portugal fiasco and the whole awful thing with Gaby’s injury, Napoleon had felt miserable. But there were a lot of things he’d got to be grateful for, and the one he was thankful for the most was when Illya had agreed to come to New York. And deep down, what he understood and finally remembered again months later was that there was such a thing as irresponsible brave hope, as belief going against all logic. 

_'You're only setting yourself up for disappointment'_ , he had thought when he had dialed Illya’s number but then what did he know? 

Illya had admitted he was glad that Napoleon had asked him to come, and Napoleon had said it was all he could do to make things better for the Russian. To make things better for them both. And they had gotten so much more than that. 

When Illya had kissed him, fingers braced against his hips, mouth on his, the clean bright smell of him - all of it weighed on Napoleon like a second conscience. It had been Illya’s way of asking for forgiveness, of trying to tell him what he was feeling. Of what he was really scared of. _Losing Napoleon_. The Russian might not be good with words but Napoleon knew and felt it and he took everything Illya had offered him. 

“Cowboy, how long have you been standing out here?”

Napoleon eventually knocked on Illya’s door and the sight of him standing there made Napoleon’s heart race. He was wearing his favourite black turtleneck shirt when he opened the door, a black that's not wholly black, but warm, maybe. It was the first thing Napoleon noticed, the first time he really looked. The second was the smell of food dancing through the doorway. 

Illya held the door wide without saying anything else, but there was that smile Napoleon had missed. 

“Hey.”

One word, ordinary, clumsy, maybe un-Napoleon like, and it had made Illya smile wider.

“Waverly told me you’re coming back today.”

“No chance of a surprise then,” Napoleon answered in mock disappointment.

He walked in when Illya gestured for him to, started to admire the setting of Illya’s apartment once inside. He had almost forgotten how it had looked like. It was a nice place, comfortable and warm. Simple. A pile of half-opened letters was on the coffee table together with a mess of change and keys, and of course, his trusted chess set on it as well. 

“I made dinner. Hungry?”

Napoleon turned to face Illya again. A tight knot formed in his gut.

“Yes. But…”

“But?”

“I’ve missed you.”

He craved to touch him. And it only had taken an admission as simple as that to do the trick.

The next thing Napoleon knew, Illya had completely closed the distance between them, brushing his lips tentatively across Napoleon’s, slowly snaking one arm closer around his neck. And before Napoleon could comprehend it, he simply let himself be pulled closer and his lips parted voluntarily under Illya’s. Napoleon knew there were so many things that needed to be said first because it was too much too soon, but at the same time, he didn’t want to stop because he had missed him that much.

“Illya,” Napoleon managed a moan, but Illya ignored the soft plea and Napoleon’s arms moved to circle his waist as a reflex when Illya let go of his lips to start kissing his way down Napoleon’s neck.

“Do you think we should have dinner first?”

At Napoleon’s words, Illya stopped and a laugh escaped his throat. His cheeks were flushed, lips plumped and Napoleon must be crazy to think of food when Illya’s there in front of him looking like that. 

“No, wait. I’m sorry. What was I thinking?” Napoleon shook his head, groaning as he cupped Illya’s face between his hands. Their eyes locked for a few moments that feel like hours before Illya started to push him back towards his room and this time Napoleon didn’t stop him. 

 

***

 

Later on, they eventually did make it for dinner and after putting away the dirty dishes, Illya forced Napoleon to sit at the table again and put a plate in front of him and held out a fork. Illya had made a cake it seemed for dessert, a traditional Russian Napoleon cake, and the first mouthful was sharp and clean and rich to Napoleon’s taste. 

“I didn’t know you could cook and bake a _‘Napoleon’_ at the same time.”

Illya blushed slightly.

“Was preparing for today. Wanted to make something special.”

“This is tedious to make.”

“Gaby. She convinced me.”

Napoleon laughed. “She was hinting that you had a surprise for me when I saw her earlier. Didn’t think it was this though.”

Illya then smiled at Napoleon fondly. “Gaby’s doing so much better. Waverly says maybe she can come back to work in a couple of weeks.”

Napoleon took another spoonful of the cake while Illya spoke. The taste was somehow comforting and familiar even though it shouldn't be, even though it was nothing that Napoleon had ever tasted before. Some things were just like that. It did not occur to him until that moment that maybe, maybe Illya was missing things and people and places too, maybe he was just good at never ever showing it. Napoleon knew the cake made him think of home. 

Maybe Napoleon made him think of home too. 

The silence between them then stretched out quietly, and was not until he looked up after scraping the plate clean that he caught Illya’s eyes again, still and inquiring and a little concerned.

“So, how was it?” he asked nervously and Napoleon didn’t think he could love Illya more than that particular moment. 

“I love it.”

Hearing the words, Illya just nodded at him the tiniest bit. The corner of his mouth curled up as if he wasn’t too surprised. Napoleon would say anything to make him feel good, at ease. He couldn’t fool Illya. A beat, a pause. And Illya was moving. He leaned across the small expanse of the table and then pulled Napoleon by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt and kissed him - long and soft, and everything started to get heady once again. Unabashedly, he circled his fingers around Napoleon’s wrist, wanting, _needing_ , and Napoleon followed him into the bedroom once again. He would have fingerprint bruises on the inside of his wrists, at the tender skin of his hips, thighs, everywhere for days after that. Illya would leave his marks. Something angry and jaded, obvious like Illya never was, but Napoleon would not mind. And for days later he would remember the way Illya’s hands had smelled like custard and pastry, his reason being _‘I’d worked hard on the cake, Solo’_ , and Napoleon would tease him endlessly. What Napoleon would think, later, while putting his shirt back on with the weight of Illya’s unwavering stare at him was _if he had nothing else in his life, he would always have this, he would keep this close_. 

And he would hold on to it like a victory that was always there to be celebrated. 

This between them had been unavoidable. 

And that, in itself, was all the reassurance Napoleon needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd taken ages to complete this story (no I had not forgotten it), and this is just a simple short epilogue for it. I hope you will like it. And thank you so much for all the love I'd gotten for this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Had not planned this to be a multi-chaptered story. But I just hope you will enjoy it and read on to find out what will happen in the end. Thanks again, as always :)


End file.
